


Glass Shard Memories

by NarrativeInformative



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Death, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:34:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NarrativeInformative/pseuds/NarrativeInformative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the Mystery Shack, before the portal, even before Dipper and Mabel there were another pair of twins. Maybe their childhood wasn't as adventurous and filled with wonder, but it was the years that Stanley and Stanford wouldn't have any other way.</p><p>A collection of prompts centering around Stanley and Stanford's childhood growing up in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phone Psychics

On rainy days there was a horrible itch under their skin. It was unlike sunburns that would peel away. Those could fade away. This itch wasn’t wasn’t on the surface. The twins grew restless when they couldn’t go outside. Being forced to stay still was torture. Stanford adapted to it, they had plenty of games, plenty of books. He could sit and read. Patience came to those who could retreat to their minds and he was no stranger to that. He could spend hours in his own mind. Stanley couldn’t.

“Ugh! We can’t play Dungeons like this!” It was Stanley who gave up on the game first while his brother still sat on the ground and read the manual through, cover to front once again.

“You’re just mad ‘cause you always make bad rolls.”

“Those dice are loaded I tell you! Loaded!”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the one who’s loaded.” There was a beat of silence between them before Stanford laughed. Another second later his brother jumped him, book knocked aside as they wrestled on the floor and the board game was bumped away by the chaos. Stanford gasped as the air was knocked out of him and Stanley sat firmly on his back, grinning with his hands in the air.

“Who’s king of the hill?”

“Get off!”

Stanley laughed, his hands coming down to keep Stanford pinned while he goaded over his victory. “King of the hill! King of the hill!”

“Ley!” Stanford huffed, scrabbling at the floorboards to find any way of escape.

The phone rang and both of them instantly went silent, their heads turned towards the door. No yell for them to pipe down, nothing but the distant ring of the phone until it was cut off.

Stanford managed to crawl out from his brother’s body, but when he had his knees beneath him Ford went motionless. It was an instinct. Fight or flight wasn’t ingrained into their bodies. Theirs was a different kind of nature. When the phone rang they froze, like a baby deer waiting in the grass. It was an instinct driven by flight, but running from home worked only so many times for a child before they realized they couldn’t. When the phone rang they went quiet because somewhere outside of their room their father was waiting. So they waited. Even the quiet heave of their chests was muted by their own muscles silently screaming to stay inaudible at all costs. All they could hear was the ringing cut just as their mother’s muffled pitch came from the other side of the house.

“Yeah, that’s ninety-nine cents an hour. Yeah, yeah, it’s high price, but you’re getting some quality service there, Rochelle.” A pause. “Of course I knew your name, I’m a psychic ya’ moron!”

“Did you hear that?” Ford was the first one to dare break the silence in their room.

“Ma’ getting a call?”

“Not that!” Stanford hissed under his breath. There was a wild look in his eyes, the kind that he got when an old copy of a science fiction comic passed through the pawnshop. He opened the door ever so slightly and peeked down the hall. “She got one right!”

“So? Ma’ probably knew her voice or somethin’.”

“Or maybe she’s developed some real psychic powers!” Ford turned and stared at his brother. Hope and thrill sparkled behind his smudged glasses. Stanley cast his eyes towards the floor for a moment, his ears listening for anything other than the quiet croon of Johnny Hodges on the radio below.

Stan finally grinned at Ford with one tooth missing from his smile. “Investigatin’ time.”

They crept through the winding hallways, following the distant chatter of their mother and the faint smell of cigarette smoke that clung to every piece of fabric it touched. Stan led the way. Each step from him was silent, even against the loose floorboards when the carpet ended. Ford’s feet could never replicate that slyness and would always give beneath his unsure feet. His brother glanced down, his body ramrod still and listening. Nothing but jazz and their mother chattering away on the phone a few rooms down.

Ford hated sneaking through the hallway. It was too slow and his mind was given too much time to think. All of the photos of their family stared down at him, a thousand eyes following him, judging him and the oddity of his existence. Ford shoved his hands into his pockets and stood just behind where Stan was peaking around the hall.

Their mother was sprawled out over the couch. Her favorite red dress clung to her body and just pooled over the side of the sofa just like water. A cigarette was pinched between her fingers as she spoke into the receiver.

“That boy you’re datin’ is no good, take it from the psychic here. This Charlie guy, bad news.” She paused and raised the cigarette to her lips, sucking in slow and breathing out through her nose.

“Whoa.” The word was carried on Stan’s breath. Ford had showed him a movie, something about knights and dragons made with special effects. Their mother looked nothing like a dragon, but everything reminded him of one that was much more dangerous than in the movie. She was curled upon her own throne, a few sequins sewn into the neckline glittering like scales as smoke drifted from her nostrils. Ford could go on and on about the creatures, but Stan was fascinated by the power someone could have and it made his mouth fall open in awe.

“Hon’, don’t yell ‘cause you don’t like the truth.” She paused, her eyebrows furrowed together. “I ain’t no phony, sister! If ya’ don’t like-“ The woman’s voice cut off with a slight flinch away from the phone. She stared at the device a moment longer before slamming it down and taking another deep breath of smoke.

Stan flinched as her eyes traveled across the room and fell upon her two son’s watching her from behind the corner. Without hesitation the cigarette was snubbed out in an ashtray and she smiled at the two. “Hey boys. Thought you were playin’ a board game?”

Her smile was a welcome, moving to sit up while they finally pulled themselves away from the shadows of the hall. The boys took a few steps forward.

With reflexes too fast for a woman her age she reached out with the intention to grab. Ford was the one who was a little too slow, struggling in his mother’s grasp before she pressed her lips against his cheek and blew a raspberry. Ford’s laughter was only dwarfed by Stan’s cackle, held still by playfully merciless hands. When he was finally released the boy nearly fell off the couch, sporting a rather large and smudged lipstick stain on his cheek that his jacket sleeve couldn’t rub away. Their mother grinned and she patted the empty space next to her and Stan took up the seat with a large smile and a kiss to his cheek. The stain was nowhere as large or messy as Ford’s, but Stan absorbed the affection like a sponge.

The six-fingered boy blinked slowly at her, then looked to the phone. Its cord was horribly tangled where their mother twisted her finger through the loops. “Did you really see that lady’s future?”

She sighed and ruffled the boy’s hair, opening her mouth but Stan’s voice spoke up first.

“Where’d ya’ put that book of names? Wasn’t that lady’s name in it?” Her head turned fast enough for a few stands of hair to fall loose from her beehive. The smile on her face changed from nurturing and gentle and twisted into the same mischievousness that Stan often had. “She local?”

“You sneaky little-“ Without warning she burst into laughter, gathering the boys into her arms and holding them tight. Her laugh was infectious and the boys laughed with her. All fear of being quiet evaporated with her voice, like they could forget their ingrained nature and feel as free as Stanley and Stanford felt when they wandered the beach. “You boys are so smart!”

“Ma’!” Stan whined with a little too much laughter, his face turning red as their mother peppered their cheeks with kisses until they were all out of breath and sprawled over the couch in a heap.

“I guess you didn’t really have a psychic vision or something, huh?” Ford sat up, staring at her from behind the glasses that hung lopsided on the bridge of her nose. She stared at her child. His face was still flushed red, only made brighter by the smeared lipstick on his cheek, but it wasn’t the same amount of energy that he had walked in the room with.

Her mouth softened and reached out to fix the glasses on his face. “Not this time. But let me tell you something.” She pulled the boys in close, Stan almost collapsed over her while Ford tensed, but didn’t pull out of her grasp. “Sometimes the universe just reaches out to you. You should always listen to it. Sometimes it’s your gut-“ Stan laughed when she poked him in the side with a well manicured nail. “Sometimes it’s your head.” Ford didn’t laugh the same way Stan did when she ruffled his hair, but it was a puff of air and the child smiled up at her with wide eyes like his mother was the entire universe. “And you know what the universe is telling me right now?”

“What?” The twins asked in unison, both of them almost jumping up and down on the couch.

She grinned, taking their hands into her palms; one with five fingers, the other with six. “You’re both psychic too.” The looks on their face were so bright even she couldn’t contain the joy that was radiating from her children. “That also means that you two share a special bond. They say twins have special powers. That they can feel the thoughts of the other, no matter how far away. In a way, you two will be better psychics than I could ever be.”

“No way!” They both shouted and then looked to each other. For a moment she was taken aback by how in synch her children were. Their voices matching the same pitch, heads snapping to look at each other, blinking once before they shouted in perfect unison. “Jinx- Double jinx- triple jinx-“

“Okay, okay boys! No need to show it off.” She laughed and sat back as Stan tackled Ford to the ground. They rolled around at her feet, and she watched the playful fight between them. Somewhere in the background the phone rang, on and on, until it went to voicemail while the false psychic watched her children. Not even the faint sound of jazz music below could stop their laughter.


	2. Dead Rat

Children reach a certain age when they understand that death is an inevitable fact of life. Once someone is dead they never come back and all the wishing and prayer in the world won’t bring them back.

Stanford’s first experience of death was through a science fiction movie. He watched as someone died from a bullet in another’s arms, dark liquid poured down their chest. Black and white saved him from seeing the red, but he understood that the woman was dead. He tried to tell Stanley, even show him, but there were no reruns of it and Stanley passed it off as a nerd show. Ford never slept much but restless nights came to him for the rest of the week.

Stanley’s first brush with death was very different.

Clouds still hovered in the air a few days after a tropical storm crept its way up the coast. School had just barely gone back into motion and the air was still thick with early September heat.

Stanley hated when school picked up because of the older kids that picked on them could corner the twins easily. Teachers never bothered to scold the kids and Stan often took the brunt of the punishment. The only thing worse than that was waiting for Ford after chess club. He never understood how it all worked. Why did the horse pieces move like that on the chessboard anyways? It was stupid. He was stupid. Changing one word could make the difference between self-confidence and self-consciousness.

He wandered around the nearby streets. The playground was a watering hole for people that would shove him into the dirt and knock out another one of his baby teeth. There was the convenience store, but Stan would only poke around. Money was split between him and Stanford and it was a challenge to resist the temptation of a bag of chips or chilled bottle of pop. The clerk watched him like a hawk as he browsed through the aisles and eventually found himself sitting on a nearby stoop.

He lay back against the concrete, trying to pick out where one cloud ended and one began in the sheet of gray that covered the town. This went on for a matter of minutes that felt like hours dragging on and on. All Stan wanted was for Ford to come back so they could comb the beach together. Maybe something drifted ashore during the storm? Maybe bottles filled with secret treasure maps, or an injured mermaid that would be thankful for their help and tell them about a secret city below the tides.

It wouldn’t be the same without Ford. He was the one who could come up with even more fantastical ideas, crazier adventures that Stanley could actually believe.

The boy sat up, grumbling and his hands finding a small piece of gravel that had probably been kicked up by a car’s tires on one of the stairs. Nothing really weighted or could do much damage. It would break a window or dent a car, but other than that his imagination was limited.

He held up the stone, aiming it for a bucket at the bottom of the stoop and threw. Stanley internally cheered when it went in and waited for the satisfying sound of the rock clattering against metal and water.

There was no clang. There was no plop. The rock had fallen in, dead center, but it sounded quiet. Like it had hit something soft.

“What in the heck?” Stan muttered under his breath, almost angry that something had taken the little satisfaction of getting that rock in on the first try. His irritations made him move from the steps, climbing down a few to retrieve his rock and maybe tip the bucket over while he was at it.

A pair of glassy fogged eyes stared up at Stan. At first Stan didn’t react, it took him a beat to realize it was a rat, another for him to gasp and stumble back. He fell back onto the concrete step. The slight pain in his tailbone was nothing compared to the numbing feeling spreading out from his chest and down to his fingertips.

Water had gathered in the bucket from the storm, filling the container well. It was just… Floating there. Staring at him. Or maybe something else? Whatever the rat was staring at it was far above Stanley and beyond the sky itself.

The boy was caught between gagging, running away, and peaking back into the bucket. That last one was a growing impulse that Stanley gave into. He peaked inside and stared at the little bloated body. It would have been a thin thing in life, starving constantly and looking for a small scrap of food just to keep on the edge of life. In death it looked so full. Flesh sucked in water and the liquid made its fur look clean and slick in the faint daylight.

He felt a new impulse, and Stanley was one to follow his gut. With a small nudge the bucket toppled over. Metal clattered against the concrete and water slid out over the stairs, over and over like a small waterfall. The rat floated out, only falling to the last stair while the last of the water washed over its body.

Water no longer supported the rat’s small body. Its limbs flopped to the ground in an awkward manner. Stan has seen girls on the playground with their dolls arms hanging limp by their sides. He reached out with one hand and flinched when his fingers connected with a small cold paw.

The boy pulled away like he had been burned. It was so cold. All of the heat was sapped from Stan’s body with that single touch. The rat still didn’t move, the warmth from his fingertips had been taken but there was no twitch. No spark of life. Stan’s throat tightened and he reached out again to touch the creature, not flinching away and turning the rat on its back.

Its stomach looked strange, like it had been cut even though there was no blood. Parts of it were torn and there was a soft pink flesh that was barely being held together. A bitter feeling worked up Stanley’s throat and he reached out with one finger, reaching out to touch the pink flesh.

A part of him flinched away at the soft touch, like he could have pushed his hand into the dead animal’s belly. His stomach churned and he turned away, finally standing up and looking down at the rat. A few drops fell near the rat’s body and the boy was shocked. Was- was he crying? Why was he crying?

He tried to steel himself, blotting out the tears against his cheeks and forcing himself to swallow around the tightness of his throat.

Stanley didn’t bury the rat’s body. He didn’t put it back in the bucket. He didn’t run. All he did was walk back to the school with his hands shoved into his jean pockets. Hopefully Stanford was done with his chess club.

Stanley didn’t like being alone, especially not with his thoughts.


End file.
